


Snow Day

by wildandbeautiful



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cabin Sex, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Smut, Snowed In, all gaby wants for christmas is illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildandbeautiful/pseuds/wildandbeautiful
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Illya and Gaby get the gift they both really want: a day off.





	Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueincandescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/gifts).



December 24, 1966

i. 

Gaby props her feet up on the windowsill watching the fat, fluffy flakes fall from the sky. With only the final dying embers of the fire left, she keeps a fur throw wrapped around her. Illya snores quietly from the bed.

After weeks of tepid coffee and drafty apartments in Turkey, Aspen, Colorado is a nice change of pace for them both. What started as a simple recon mission tracking a state official on vacation, now becomes the downtime Gaby had been lobbying for for months. Watching the winter storm move in, she knows they will be confined to the cabin for at least a day.

She smiles.

The flurries rain down from the sky, covering everything with a quiet white. It’s beautiful, for sure. Gaby never thought she’d think of snow as anything other than a nuisance. Now all that white sends a tingle of pleasure up her legs. Undoubtedly because it reminds her of Illya. The cold, the beauty, the purity. And when she thinks of Illya, she thinks of… an hour ago. Lying naked underneath him. Her legs on his hips. His cum on her skin.

Gaby watches the snow continue to fall, thick and white, and she smiles.

***

They wake later that morning to a frosted line of snow up to the windowsills and more cascading from the oyster shell sky. Gaby watches it as they lie tangled together, naked. Illya noses through her hair, kissing her crown. “Good morning, gorgeous girl,” he mumbles.

“You sound tired,” she muses, peeking up at him. “Perhaps your endurance is not what it used to be.”

“Perhaps you are more taxing than any training I do before,” he says back. It’s true, she is very demanding of his affections. In her defense, he is always a willing, if not enthusiastic, participant.

“It looks like we will get plenty of rest now,” he murmurs against her ear.

Gaby goes to the window to inspect the damage, the fur draped over her. When she returns, she straddles Illya, opening the blanket to embrace him. He kisses her chest, grateful.

“We’ll have to share body heat to stay warm,” she purrs.

“There is plenty firewood.”

“All the same,” and she kisses him.

 

ii.

They’ve been sequestered. Ordered to wait it out. It goes like this: Illya heats water on the wood-burning stove for coffee. Gaby stretches her legs on the large blue rug. Her cheeks are pink from the fire. The cabin smells of evergreen.

He’s antsy, she can tell. He doesn’t do well with changes in the middle of a mission. He certainly doesn’t do well with being stuck inside. She aims to change his mind on that one. Gaby wants for little in this world. An Aston Martin Zagato-bodied DB4 GT. A quiet house. And to have Illya Kuryakin all to herself. He is barefoot when he brings her a golden waffle, and the sight stirs a vision of domesticity in her mind. Early morning in that quiet house with him in the kitchen. Things she can’t have. She quickly brushes it away.

“I’m a little disappointed,” she says as he joins her on the floor in front of the couch. “I wish we could be home for Christmas.”

He pauses on the word _home_ , though it’s subtle enough that only an expertly trained spy could catch it. They both know she means London, but she has no intention of backtracking there. Despite allegiances being what they are, London—and Gaby’s small flat with both of their paltry belongings tucked into it—is as much home as anywhere else. It’s been three years of UNCLE, two and a half since they started their affair, fourteen months since he said _I love you_ and fourteen months and a week since she said it back. She’s earned rights to home by now.

“We will have to celebrate here,” he says feeding her a syrup-drenched square.

“Good thing I brought your present,” she says, expecting at the very least an eye roll. Instead he avoids her, studying his plate.

“Did you bring mine?” she wheedles, the thought occurring to her.

“Yes,” but it is quiet, reluctant. Something soft and warm rises in her chest.

“Is always good to be prepared for any situation,” he says louder, happy to hide sentiment behind practicality.

“Lucky me,” she deadpans, but leans in to kiss his cheek all the same. He turns as she starts to pull away, catching her mouth. She licks into him tasting maple and Illya. He grabs her waist to pull her onto his lap. His large hands knead her sides through her flannel top.

“This better not be a distraction technique because all you got me is mittens again,” she says, when he leaves her mouth in favor of sucking bruises into her pulse point.

“You like those mittens,” he says defensively. It’s obstructed by the fact that he’s chewing on her earlobe. “You wear all the time.”

“That’s true.” She gasps as his iceblock fingers find their way under her shirt. Gooseflesh breaks out on her skin and her nipples peak as much for the cold hands as for the man they belong to. “I would just hope two years later you’d come up with something a little more… inspired.”

Last Christmas Illya was in Russia— _home_ —and Gaby spent the holiday alone, despite invitations from both Napoleon in New York and Waverly in London. She got blind drunk on vodka and typed out a five page letter to her absent lover. It was part love letter ( _I want you to destroy me_ ), part erotica ( _You are so much better at touching me than I am myself. Please come home. I want all of my orgasms to belong to you._ ), part rage-filled castigation ( _I refuse to be runner up to a government you despise. I am no man’s mistress. Stay away from me_ ). As she read it the next morning, blurry-eyed and hungover, she blushed for her foolishness. She burned the pages in the fireplace that night ashamed that Illya may ever find them.

“If you’re worried, you should have told me what you want,” he says now, hand sliding over her navel in its descent. “This is usually the case in all other things.”

“ _Mmm_ ,” she sighs as his hand slips into her underwear to feel how wet she is. She knows because he tells her so, says it like a swear. “I’d rather you surprise me. I’m interested to see what kind of present you could fit in that hatbox you call a suitcase.”

At the gentle reprimand he doubles his pressure on her, slipping a finger inside. She has little to say that is coherent after that.

“You will not be disappointed.”

 _No_ , she thinks as he lays her on the sheepskin rug, _most definitely not_.

His fingers make quick work of the buttons on her shirt. He ducks his head to kiss along the waistband of her silk panties before sliding the fabric down the slopes of her legs. He pockets them, god knows why, but the movement draws her attention to the bulge in his pants. She moves her leg up his thigh, but he simply pulls it away in favor of bowing over her hips.

When his mouth meets her, her gasp is swallowed by the crack of wood in the fire. She stretches on the white fur beneath her to grind her hips further into him. He accommodates her with two fingers.

“Illya. _Fuck_.” Her fingers dig into his shoulders to keep her grounded. He doesn’t let up though and has her gasping under him. She can feel the pressure, hot and wet, building at her core. Then he’s pulling away and she whines for the loss. He presses conciliatory kisses to her inner thighs.

He shucks his shirt and pants, leaving him kneeling over her completely nude, skin glowing in the firelight. All these years, all the moments like this, and it still amazes her how beautiful he is. When she meets his eyes, he looks at her wistfully, bending to give her a slow kiss. So often they are rushed; now, they can take their time.

He positions the head of his cock at her entrance and her mouth waters in anticipation. He teases her, holding himself there. How many times had the roles been reversed? She had not been kind.

“You question my ability to give you what you want?” he asks, smirking.

“Illya,” she complains, trying to lift up but his hands keep her hips pinned.

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you,” she pants. “I love you.”

His cock twitches and she’s practically purring. “Now fuck me.”

He thrusts into her with a deep groan. Gaby stretches, back arching, adjusting. He moves slow, rolling his hips into her and she tells him how good he feels. It’s luxurious: fucking in the morning, with nowhere to go, nothing to steal their attention but each other. She wants to do this every day for the rest of her mornings.

He reaches down between them to stroke her as they move. She squeezes his ass to encourage him, and he obliges, moving faster. His fingers push white hot in the perfect place and she gives in, pushing her head back into the rug, babbling as she comes. She’s barely coherent when she hears his own string of nonsense. Her Russian is not fluent, but she knows these words, has heard them before. He tells her he loves her, calls her his ‘little mouse,’ describes how perfect her cunt is. They both moan as he spills into her.

After, she lies with her head on his chest and they watch the fire. She runs her fingers through the hair on his chest, traces the outlines of his muscles. He’s as vast and amazing as the mountains visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dappled with scar tissue like fissures in the land. Cover him in snow, she thinks, unmarred and apolitical.

“Tell me about this one,” she says when her fingers brush a bit of raised skin she doesn’t recognize. He likes to show off. She likes to call him on his bullshit. It’s a game they can both play.

“That is from the bear.”

“A bear? You were attacked by a bear?”

“I wrestle bear. All KGB recruits must do,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Really?” her tone is all skepticism. “What happened to the bear after you won?”

“Don’t worry, once service was over it was given good life in forest. Had wife and several cubs. Lived very long life. Was given a very nice dacha and brand new car for his troubles,” he says as she laughs out right, him rolling her beneath his body to steal the snicker from her mouth. For a moment, they are suspended in time, covered by snow, frozen in an impenetrable globe. In this moment he can make stories of scars, and her teasing dimples allow him to imagine they are true.  

 

iii.

By late afternoon the storm has stalled enough for them to venture out. Gaby finds the ice skates buried in a closet. While the largest pair are still a size too small for Illya, she forces him to walk her to the frozen pond and stuff his feet into the skates. He is a pro, of course, while she has not skated since she was a child. She wobbles and falls a few times before her dancer’s legs adapt. Illya helps her at first. She can feel his solid touch even through multiple layers of sweater and coat. Once the muscle memory returns to her thighs, she holds nothing but his hand as she skates around him.

It begins to snow again, light flakes melting in her lashes. She pushes the fur of her collar up around her cheeks. She is struck by how good he looks, his nose bitten red by the chill, eyes bright and snow in his hair. He smiles at her as she glides backwards, and it is the way she has always wanted to be looked at. She used to hate the cold. She used to hate all Russians. But she craves cold nights, now that she has him to warm her bed.

“Kiss me.”

It’s a simple enough request and he complies, taking her frosty cheeks in his gloved hands, bringing his mouth to hers in an icy kiss, warmed only by his tongue parting her lips.  

 

iv. 

When her teeth begin to chatter, he makes them go back. She defrosts on the leather couch as he brings her a mug of hot chocolate.

“I could make you dinner,” she says, rubbing his ear between her thumb and forefinger to warm it.

“Am I being punished?” he asks skeptically.

She laughs pushing on his thigh with her socked foot. “My cooking is not that bad. Trust me.”

He looks pleasantly surprised when later she brings a fondue pot bubbling with golden cheese to the coffee table. An assortment of bread soon follows.

“Now, you won’t get your real present until tomorrow, but consider this a pre-Christmas treat,” she says, pulling a wool blanket over her crossed legs. The clouds have cleared and Gaby watches the moonlight bounce off the snow. Meanwhile, Illya watches her.

“What?” she asks catching his gaze. His gaze, as always, is naked, but now worry creases his brow. He sucks a stray string of cheese from his finger and she delights for it.

“Today is best gift,” he says.

She hums her agreement. “Our snow day.”

He smiles and she represses the urge to bury her head in his white knit sweater, nuzzle his chest for the warmth.

“I think you’d like to keep me locked up in this cabin forever,” she teases. “Hide me away all for yourself. Greedy boy.”

“This is what _I_ want?” he asks, brow quirked at the covetousness in her voice. He’s right: She’s trying to project her own desire onto him. 

“I wouldn’t mind having you at my beck and call at all times,” she allows.

“As if you do not already,” he says, droll.

“Oh I don’t know,” she muses. “As soon as we are released from here I’m sure you will be off, far away from me. Only to return on your own whims.”

“They are not my whims,” he reminds her, serious.

“And yet you cater to them instead of mine,” she says. The worry returns to his face tenfold and she regrets it. Despite her own worst instincts, she doesn’t want to ruin this day.

With wine and cheese warm in her belly, she crawls over his lap to make amends.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers, kissing his cheeks. He is unmovable though, this man of hers. So she ups the ante, slipping her sweater over her head and shrugging out of her bra. Despite his familiarity with her body, he is immediately captivated. Stress evaporates from him as she palms over the front of his pants. They kiss for awhile, slow, deep, sloppy. 

“Why are you angry with me?” he asks at one point. 

“Who would we be if one of us was not angry about something?” she quips. He’s not appeased. 

“I do not want to feel as though I’m losing you,” he says. 

“Don’t worry about that,” she promises and kisses him again. When he is hard to the point of discomfort, she slides to her knees, releasing him from his pants. 

“Relax,” she says before swallowing him in one swift move. He chokes, canting his hips reflexively. She pleasures him until he is mindless, head full of snow.

She pulls back and her voice is hoarse when she says, “Touch yourself.”

She stands to slip out of the rest of her clothes watching him heed her command. In nothing but his sweater, cherry cock in his hand, he looks more beautiful than any painting she’s ever seen. She was unfair earlier: He caters to her whims quite frequently and efficiently.

“I want to do this forever,” he sobs. Then he’s coming over his fist, jerking and shuddering. It’s quite a sight, and Gaby is certain she will carry it with her for the rest of her life, despite where they each end up. For now, it is enough.

“Now, touch me.” And he does.

 

v.

After a decadently long bath in the oversized copper tub, they both emerge fresh and languid. Gaby retreats to the kitchen while Illya sets up the cabin’s chess set. She puts on a Bing Crosby record. It’s more than an hour and a half later that he comes in to find her icing sugar cookies in the shape of snowflakes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, kissing the point where her hairline meets her neck.

“It’s not Christmas without cookies,” she says. “There’s something else for you. Check the oven.”

Illya cautiously pulls open the La Cornue’s doors. He beams to see the spiced apple cake baking within. It’s one of about five dishes she can make without fail. And his favorite.

She’s so focused on icing she doesn’t realize he’s making mulled wine until she smells it. He pours two mugs and wraps her in her winter wear. They walk outside and with the clouds gone the night stretches above them, bright and breathtaking. The blue velvet sky is embroidered with glittering stars.

“Beautiful,” she breathes. “You’re in your element here. All the cold.”

“You have not enjoyed it?” he asks.

She thinks of the ground under the snow, the life hidden beneath it. Gaby certainly knows the advantages of hiding.

“I’ve enjoyed you,” she tells him.

From behind her, Illya clears his throat. “Gaby—”

But she cuts him off, pulls his hand from her waist up to her mouth to kiss it through the glove. “It’s okay, Illya. I know.”

And she does. She knows that he would spend every Christmas with her, every other holiday as well. She knows he would spend every single day with her in this cabin. If it were up to him. But their lives are not their own. Not yet, anyways. Perhaps one day, when their service is over, they will get a nice life in the forest, a dacha and a new car for their troubles.

“I love you,” he whispers kissing the shell of her ear. It’s a small concession every time he says it and she’s always grateful.

“I know that too,” she says, still staring at the cosmos.

Tomorrow will be Christmas and they’ll have to emerge from their retreat back into a shiny world of make believe. They’ll go to a party hosted by a Kennedy, smile and laugh, play like a gorgeous society couple. After—the tux and velvet couture and artifice stripped away—they’ll exchange their gifts and quickly make love and continue on into 1967 on the hope of stolen days like these.


End file.
